Like One of His Drugs
by i-am-wholocked
Summary: When a bright, young, male chemist sweeps the normally asexual detective off his feet, Sherlock claims the relationship is only for "recreation and pleasure". Suddenly, Mr. Holmes, proving his own theories about love's consequences, discovers feelings he didn't know he could have, surprisingly for John. Eventual Johnlock, Rated M for language and themes, but nothing graphic.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: I'd like to thank all of you reading this. Thanks for giving a rather radical and ridiculous fanfiction a chance. I know the idea sounds a bit crazy, but this tale has been brewing in my mind for months. I hope you enjoy it. By the way, I'd like to thank ANGST…. ANGST and ANGST. Enjoy. **_

Mrs. Hudson had set tea out on the table, in the center of the living room as a peace offering for the quarrelling flatmates, but it turned cold and stayed untouched. The army doctor merely stared at it, glaring over the paper he pretended to read. The detective, sprawled out on the sofa, plucked the strings of his violin anxiously. Though silence was usual between them, John still found this lack of conversation awkward. After all, Dr. Watson had heard the news from Molly, the news of Sherlock's new romantic interest.

Of course, John was happy for his flatmate. Sherlock needed someone. Everyone needed someone. The detective hadn't shown a great interest in anyone since Miss Adler, and that was now six years in the past. He needed to move on.

But John did feel a bit jealous. The doctor had been happily married for four wonderful years, or so he thought. Then he found Mary with another man, and everything fell to pieces.

Now Sherlock had someone, and John had no one. In many ways, the world felt unbalanced, tilted much too far off its proper axis. It was practically flip-flopped. The detective John had known for so many years wouldn't fall into any ridiculous relationships, so something must be wrong. _That's it . . . something's terribly wrong with the workings of the world. _The worst part of it all was that Sherlock refused to admit his real emotions. He claimed this new relationship was like one of his drugs, just for recreational use. But John knew otherwise. John could tell that something about his flatmate was changing, and he didn't know if it was for better or for worse.

_Several days earlier_

Sherlock, seated in the darkened lab at St. Bart's, stared at a tiny object in a clear Petri dish through his favorite microscope. He didn't take notice to the young man who had just burst through the door. The bloke coughed, loudly. The detective looked up.

"Uh . . . Excuse me sir, but are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" The man stuttered.

Sherlock set down the dish and replied, "Yes. Why?"

The man held out his hand and said, "I'm Flynn, Flynn Cantrell."

Sherlock examined him. The man was tall, well built, extremely bleach blonde and bright blue-eyed. Telltale signs showed that he was clearly a scientist, and a tag on his white coat gave his name and position. He was a chemist intern at a local research laboratory. The detective, ignoring the man's gesture of a handshake, barked, "I asked you to tell me why you came here, and that didn't imply that you needed to introduce yourself." He turned back to his Petri dish slipping it around underneath the microscope.

Flynn grabbed his shoulder in an effort to gain back his attention.

Sherlock, still looking down, growled, "I have a lot of work to do, so if you have no real business here, please dismiss yourself quickly and quietly."

Mr. Cantrell responded, "I came here for a reason. I've got a case for you."

With the mention of a possible case, Sherlock's eyes brighten and a smirk flashed across his face. He contained his joy and turned back to look at the young man.

The detective asked, "What kind of case? Does it involve the research lab where you work?"

Flynn explained, "Well, until yesterday I was working as an intern for a chemist at Gold Research Laboratory…"

Sherlock mumbled, "So it was the lab. Yes. Continue."

The intern continued, "Yesterday morning, out of the blue, the chemist I worked for didn't show up and my advisor told me I was being assigned a new mentor here, at St. Bart's. She said not to worry about it, that Dr. Gordon had gone to do research at an American university. That just seems very out of character. I have reason to believe he went missing under suspicious circumstances."

The detective replied, "Why is it so unlikely that Dr. Gordon would go to America? It seems possible that he would take an opportunity like that, especially because Gold is reputable for being a terrible lab to work for."

Flynn hesitated, "You see, Dr. Gordon… he hated the United States. He'd talk about Americans sometimes, and he'd refer to them as 'bloody yanks'. He made a strong point of not allowing one of the American scientists to work with him on a special project last month. I can't imagine he'd enjoy being around them all the time. Of course, that's not all. The day before he disappeared I overheard him arguing with someone on the phone. I could only hear him, not the other person, but from what he said it sounded like he was very angry. He threatened the person he was talking to."

Mr. Holmes inquired, "Threatened with what?"

The other man frowned and murmured, "To kill his or her family, sir."

Sherlock couldn't contain his smile. He grinned and said, "I'll take the case. Come by my flat tonight and we will discuss the details." He wrote his address, 221B Baker Street, on a slip of notepaper and handed it to the intern.

"Thank you very much Mr. Holmes," The young man declared.

"Please, call me Sherlock," the detective corrected.

Then, the intern headed out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors Note: School. Marching Band. Life. Sorry.**

Two weeks later, John Watson sat alone in the living room he shared with Sherlock Holmes. For the past few weeks, he'd been contemplating his feelings for his eccentric flatmate. He now knew that for many years, possibly since the day they met, he had loved Sherlock. That's why none of the relationships worked until the detective was dead, and why the one that did last ended shortly after Sherlock's return. John always cared more for the detective than the rest of the world, especially the woman he dated. So, unsure of the right person to tell, Dr. Watson called someone else who adored his detective, Molly Hooper.

Miss Hooper cooed over the phone line, "Hello John! How can I help you? Does Sherlock need to see any bodies? We've got some pretty interesting murder victims in recently. I thought he'd be interested . . ."

Watson replied, "No Molly, I just have something I have to tell you. Can I come into the lab at St. Bart's this morning? Just me?"

Molly replied, "Of course! I'm here until three, stop by whenever you can and we'll talk about whatever you want!"

John took a cab over to the hospital, ignoring text messages from Sherlock asking him to help out with the current case. He met up with Molly in the lab. She chirped, "That was fast!"

Watson said, "Yes, you see this is rather important . . ."

Miss Hooper gestured for him to continue speaking.

John declared, "Molly… that thing I said I wanted to talk about… Well, I think I might actually be in love with Sherlock. I think I have been for quite a while. I want to tell him tonight."

Molly gasped, not because she was shocked by John's final realization, but because he didn't know that his realization was too late. She quietly mumbled, "I'm so sorry John…"

The uninformed doctor offensively replied, "What?"

The pretty, young scientist cautiously explained, "Sherlock's been seeing someone."

John, who felt like falling down, balanced himself on the lab counter. With his face pale and stricken, he uttered, "I can't… Not Sherlock, no… He never… Why finally now? Why when I finally admitted it to myself? Why now…" His words trailed off.

Miss Hooper lightly pressed her hand against his shoulder and whispered, "He should've been the one to tell you. I'm so very sorry. I just didn't know what else to say."

Dr. Watson left the lab with tears boiling in his eyes.

That afternoon, Mrs. Hudson, who heard the whole story from Molly, brought tea up to the living room. Normally, John loved tea, but at this moment the doctor blankly glared at it, pretending to read the paper. His cane was rested against the side of the armchair. He needed it on and off, but it's presence something that had rarely occupied his life since he met Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson had informed Mr. Holmes of the morning's events, minus the fact that John had admitted his true feelings. The detective, sprawled out on the sofa, plucked the strings of his violin anxiously. Though silence was usual between them, John still found this particular lack of conversation awkward.

The detective John had known for so many years wouldn't fall into any ridiculous relationships, so something must be wrong. _That's it . . . something's terribly wrong with the workings of the world._

After it felt like hours of silence had passed, Sherlock declared, "I want you to meet him."


	3. Chapter 3

One evening, Flynn came to pick Sherlock up for dinner. The detective had asked John to stay home that night so he could meet the young man. The doctor obliged, giving up his normal routine of doing down to the Pub and meeting Stamford. Like a nervous little girl, Sherlock spent an hour locked in his room getting ready, and when the doorbell rang, John had to get up to answer it. He opened the door, and before him stood a man with bleach-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Dr. Watson looked the young man up and down, examining his well-built, muscular structure and his neatly pressed suit, a grey color that neatly contrasting with his tanned skin.

Rather embarrassed by his own awful appearance, a ratty sweater and old slacks, John mustered, "Um, you must be Flynn. Sherlock's . . . said a lot about you. Very glad to meet you I'm Dr. John Watson." He held out his hand for the Flynn to shake.

"Pleasure's mine Doc," Flynn confirmed.

The young man had a firm grip, and after a quick quake, he let go of Watson's hand and let himself into the flat. John was slightly offended and a bit shocked by how forward the man was, but he didn't stop him from waltzing into the living room. Flynn obnoxiously allowed himself to sit down in Watson's favorite chair. The doctor watched as the young man dropped down slowly and squashed John's favorite pillow, the little Union flag.

John continued, "Well I'll go get Sherlock." He darted out of the living room and knocked on the detective's door. It opened a crack, then all the way and an angry voice cursed, "What do you want?"

Watson replied, "He's here."

Unexpectedly Sherlock grabbed John, pulled him into the room and slammed the door shut. Nervously, Holmes mustered, "I can't do this. He thinks we're actually going to be together, like a normal couple. How can I possibly tell him he's just one of my drugs?"

John placed his hand on the detective's shoulder, "Sherlock, are you sure you don't have feelings for him? You seem nervous."

"Whatever you say John, but you must remember I've never been with someone this way before. I've never gone out to a formal dinner with someone either . . . This is my first real date, and I plan on it being my last," he replied.

Watson questioned, "Wait, you honestly just want him for the sex?" He paused and Sherlock made an odd face, his eyebrows raised. John continued, "OH . . . okay I don't want to know then. Please do not tell me details of that. Just go enjoy yourself and tell him the truth. But he's falling for you, and that will end badly. Trust me." The doctor warned.

Sherlock grabbed John in an odd, semi-forced embrace. "Thank you for trying to understand, instead of just expressing your disgust of my intentions for Flynn." Then he walked out into the living room and left for dinner. Meanwhile, John settled in to spend his evening alone watching some crap telly. He made tea, put on his dressing gown and favorite slippers, and fixed his flattened Union flag pillow.

Sometime in the late morning, John sat down at the kitchen table to drink some tea and eat some toast, with a bit of his favorite jam. He flipped through the paper, but found nothing interesting.

Sherlock and Flynn emerged from the detective's bedroom, Sherlock in just his sheet and Flynn in only Sherlock's dressing gown. John sipped his tea and ignored their presence.

"Good morning John!" Sherlock declared in a happy, 'that's-a-bit-odd-for-Sherlock' kind of way.

Flynn, standing behind the other man, leaned down and rested his head on Sherlock's left shoulder. Looking over at John he chirped, "Mornin' Doc. Sleep well?"

"Not very well. Some things were distracting me," John coughed. He sipped his tea, discreetly glaring at Sherlock. The detective gave his flatmate a look of stern warning. He added, "How about you?"

Flynn chirped, "I had a very comfortable evening. Any interesting news this morning?"

Still exchanging meaningful, angry glances with Sherlock (looks that could only mean YOU-AND-YOUR-BOY-TOY-ARE MUCH-TOO-LOUD), John replied, "Nothing out of the ordinary, really."

Flynn, with a look of confusion across his brow, asked, "So . . . um . . . why are you staring at Sherlock whenever you're speaking to me?"

John, looking over at the detective still, responded, "I'm not. What makes you think that?"

Flynn rolled his eyes in his now apparent arrogant manner. He walked up to a chair, spun it around, and sat down straddling it. Sherlock walked over to the kettle and grabbed two mugs from the cupboard. He asked, "Would you like tea?"

The young man, intently watching John spread jam on his second piece of toast, replied, "Of course."


	4. Chapter 4

The next week on a chill afternoon, John and Sherlock were alone in the flat. The detective was lulling around, in a state of disarray.

"Why are you so upset over this relationship?" The doctor asked.

"It wasn't really a relationship. At least for the most part it was, until that night when Flynn took me to dinner… he tried to make it romantic. He said he loved me. I thought he understood that I was really only interested in his body. Apparently, sex helps me think. I should have known it would. It is just another drug I'd never tried. Recently, I reminded him of exactly what my intentions with him were. He told me we couldn't see each other anymore, because he wanted a real relationship. It was short lived. I don't care. End of story," Sherlock choked.

John snapped, "Don't act like you aren't hurt. I can see that you're upset. You look as though you've just mis-solved a case and you look your worst when you're wrong."

The detective barked, "Why do you care so much?"

John cracked up some courage and asserted, "For someone so smart you can really be quite daft. It's because I love you, you bloody fool."

"Oh. OH. I understand how you must feel." The detective croaked.

Dr. Watson explained, "No. No you don't. You can't possibly understand how much it hurts. I had my chance, and yes I'm an idiot too. I spent years ignoring my feelings for you. When I finally decided to accept them, you'd gone and found someone else. I only had myself to blame, and that's the worst possible feeling in the world. Now you're saying you never loved that man, and that you don't ever want to love. That's ridiculous."

Sherlock was taken aback by his companion's words. He spoke briefly, "Then no, I do not understand how you feel, but I do know there is something I have to say before I loose my chance to say it."

John felt butterflies in his stomach. _Could this be the moment?_

Suddenly, Sherlock stood up, grabbed his coat and scarf, and left the flat.

The modest ex-army doctor's heart sank.

A few minutes later, Mr. Holmes was at the door of Flynn's flat. He rang the bell. The young men opened the door, a sullen expressed on his face and a tired beneath his bright eyes. He growled like a dragon awoken from its endless slumber, "What the bloody hell do you want Sherlock?"

The detective replied, "I'm sorry . . . for what I said to you. You're more than a drug to me. I don't need you like an addiction or crave you like a passion. I have other intentions for you, but I just couldn't see that before. John made me realize that I have to take my chances while I still can."

Flynn ran his fingers through his own sun-bleached fringe and countered, "Your chances with what?"

Sherlock whispered, "You." He grabbed the younger man by the collar of his shirt and pressed their lips together. He kissed the other passionately, gracefully tracing his tongue along the inside of Flynn's mouth. He placed his free hand on the back of the scientist's neck and yanked the man's face closer to his own, still engaged in a obsessive frenzy of lip connection and tongue action. As the detective pulled away, the younger whispered in his ear, "I missed you, love."

_Love_. There was that nagging word again, haunting Sherlock. He couldn't set a definition to it, and he wasn't sure he'd ever felt it. Sure, Flynn was using it as a term of endearment in this case, but the detective knew the man claimed to love him in the verb sense of the word. Yet Sherlock couldn't know if he felt 'love', because he couldn't clearly pinpoint its definition.

In a soft, drone-like tone, he spat the cliché, "What is love?"

Flynn was a bit puzzled, but accepted the detective's question and organized a response, "Love is a gut feeling. You feel it when you really care about a person."

Sherlock thought about caring for others. To him, caring was a disadvantage, but he did care about his best friend John.

The scientist continued, "Love is a driving force. It pushes you to protect and defend the person you love. You'd put his life before your own in any situation. If a gun was aimed and fired, you'd die shielding that person from the bullet."

Again, Sherlock thought of John. He thought of the doctor risking his life to save him, and he also thought of himself risking his life to save John.

Finally the young man concluded, "Love is a harmony, a perfect combination of two completely different things. They don't seem to fit, and they really don't have much in common, but with all the odds stacked against them, they make the perfect pair. Their polar differences generate a one-of-a-kind balance that changes both parties substantially. Both parties receive a mutual benefit. They become one single unit, no longer functioning alone." He paused briefly then added, "Though scientifically, love is a chemical reaction in the brain, but science can't rule every aspect of our lives."

Sherlock thought for a moment, taking in each word Flynn provided for him. That's when it hit him. The young chemist didn't complete him. The young chemist wouldn't die for him. He didn't have a gut feeling, driving him toward the young chemist. Flynn wasn't the person Sherlock wanted to be with. If relationships are really based on love, and love is really as Flynn defined it… then the detective had suddenly deduced what he'd been too blind to see for so many years. Sherlock loved Dr. John Watson. He had for a very long time. He just didn't know to wrap his head around the idea, as it lay drifting in the uncharted regions of his mind palace as an unimportant idea, wasting space and wasting away.

_**Author's Note: That's for the reviews and follows guys! Thanks so much! Sorry about the errors, I don't have a beta. We're almost done; I plan on finished this within the next two weeks. We'll see if that pans out.**_


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